Solstice
by Threesmallcrows
Summary: There's a kid in the bathroom stall. He's curled on the floor, asleep or passed out with his forehead pressed against the toilet's base. In which Yukine is a runaway, Yato's homeless, Hiyori works at the local shelter, and it's the winter of the deepest freeze Tokyo's seen in thirty years.
1. December

()

There's a kid in the bathroom stall.

He's curled on the floor, asleep or passed out with his forehead pressed against the toilet's base. Yato doesn't have to lift the lid to know there's vomit in the bowl.

_Do good, _Yato tells himself fiercely, _do good—_but it's three fucking a.m. in the morning and he's exhausted and his feet are freezing through the holes in his shoes.

He takes his dump in the stall next door. Vaguely, the scent of blood announces itself from his right, tugging at his shirt hem like a toddler over the clamoring screech of the vomit.

_Fine_. He'll give the kid a good slap, just to see if he's alive, and if he wakes up then Yato's high-tailing it the fuck out. That counts as… something, right?

He pulls his sweatpants back up, buckling the belt around the hem, the elastic long ago worn out, and strolls back into the stall.

"Hey."

No response. Yato nudges him firmly with his foot.

"Hey."

He props his boot on one shoulder and shoves. The boy _unsticks _from the floor, and now the copper tang is a punch in the teeth, red all over the kid's t-shirt. And maybethere's eyes some color other than dark plum and mustard yellow in that mess of a face, maybe there's skin that's milk or sand or moon colored under the drying blood and all the bruises—but Yato can't see anything at all.

When he picks him up he's burning.

()

"What—"

"Call a hospital," he grunts, heaving the boy onto a couch. "Found this one passed out in the bathroom. No idea how he got there."

Behind the cracked plastic of the booth, Hiyori's already picking up the phone.

Yato likes Hiyori. Yeah, she's idealistic and naive and too-obviously rich, but he's never hated anyone with clean hands just because his are dirty. If a nice kid like her wants to waste her time on bums like him, well, he'll enjoy the view while he can. Besides, she's good under pressure.

Hanging up, she hurries out from behind the booth's little swinging gate. Her jacket brushes Yato's side. She always smells of flowers.

Efficiently, she checks for a pulse.

"Didn't know you were a nurse, Hiyori."

She smiles faintly. "I'm not."

He gestures at one of her fingers, wrapped in a band-aid. "Be careful. You don't want to get blood on that."

"What?"

"You know. Diseases. Like HIV and things."

"He's not going to have HIV. He's just a kid."

Yato doesn't say anything.

()

Two weeks later, the kid comes back.

He stands out like a poodle in a pack of wolves, braced wobbly-kneed in the corner, wearing that same fur-rimmed olive coat. Yato can tell by the way he moves that he's still in a lot of pain. At least his face doesn't look like a piece of rotten fruit anymore. Turns out he's got orangey-brown eyes, like something out of a fancy-chocolate commercial, a button nose, round cheeks.

There's no way the hospital cleared him this fast. Pulled a runner, then. A stupid move—the doctors'll give you a clean bed, strong meds, and food three times a day, which is better than can be said for out here.

_Good deeds_, he tells himself, and walks over to the kid.

"Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

Yato looks coldly at him. "The one who picked your sorry ass out of that toilet stall and called the ambulance, that's who. You should still be there, you know."

"Like hell," spits the kid. "It's none of your goddamn business."

_I've got you pinned, you little shit, _Yato wants to say. A kid of obviously good breeding, milk-skinned and wide-eyed, beat up like that and bleeding out in a toilet stall, doesn't know jack shit about the world—a kid like that doesn't want to stay in the hospital because he doesn't want to get picked up, doesn't want to be caught, to go back. He wonders if he fed this brat his own pathetic story how surprised he'd be; if he'd cry.

Count to ten, breath in, out. "Okay," he says simply, and walks away.

()

As luck would have it, when he gets back, the only open bed is next to one with an olive fur-rimmed jacket dumped on it.

Sighing, Yato gathers it onto his own bed. He's honestly surprised it hadn't already been stolen, a nice little article like that lying around.

A leather wallet falls out as he moves it. He picks it up and flicks it open. The first thing he sees is a driver's license with a picture of a scruffy middle-aged man on it.

When the kid returns, Yato's lying on his back, playing with the wallet.

The kid eyes him.

"Give that back."

"I don't feel like it."

"It's mine."

"Is it, really? _Noriko Nakamura?_"

"What the fuck? My name's _Yukine_. Give it back."

Instead, Yato flicks the driver's license at him, smirking when the kid fails to catch it and it hits him in the forehead. "That's not what your license says."

Yukine's trying to skewer him with his gaze, which would work better if one of his eyes wasn't still a kind of swollen greenish-yellow. "That's my brother."

"Bit old, isn't he? Sure he's not your dad? Or is that a _taboo _subject for you?" Yato gestures at his face. "You know, because of…"

And now he's done it. The kid's fists are balled and he's got his hackles up.

"You hit me, that's fine. But I'm telling you right now that I'll hit back." Plucking the cash and cards out of the wallet, Yato throws it over the gap between their beds. "That's what you have to do. Hit back. Tell you what, _Nakamura _Yukine. You bring your brother down here and I'll give you this stuff back. Till then, I'm keeping it. Okay?"

He makes a show of fluffing his threadbare pillow and pulling the scratchy shelter-issued blanket over himself, and closes his eyes. Wide awake, waiting.

About forty-five minutes later, he hears the kid slide off the bed. The red beneath his closed eyelids dulls as a shadow slides over him.

Go on, he thinks. Do it. Rob me. I'll kick the fuck out of you, and I won't even feel bad about it. Might even count as a _good deed._

But after a few minutes of tight-knuckled breathing, the kid slides back over to his side.

Yato smiles into his pillow and goes to sleep.

()

Even though the bus is coming in four minutes, he stops by in the front room to talk to Hiyori. She's on her way out from the night shift, bundling a gigantic knit scarf around her neck. For the billionth time he wishes he had something to offer her—even a cup of coffee. But all he has is the faint smell of sweat and an empty stomach, and even a bum knows girls don't like those sorts of things.

So he talks, because at least nobody's started charging for words yet.

"That kid's back."

Hiyori looks up from stuffing things into her bag. "Who?"

"The little blonde shit—sorry, kid—that was bleeding all over the couch the other day."

"Shouldn't he still be in the hospital?"

"He probably ran away. Hey, CPS doesn't drop by here, do they?"

"Not unless someone phones in."

Yato nods.

"I'm not going to call them," says Hiyori suddenly. "They'll take him back, won't they."

"That they will," says Yato, and the fact that she, too, knows without having to be told, is yet another thing he likes about her.

Hiyori bites her lip.

"We'll see," she says eventually. "And you, where're you off to?"

"The usual pavement-pounding," he answers, smile thin as an old pair of socks. His cuffs are grey but dry-cleaning a shirt costs more than the money he spends on food for two days. He holds the door open for her as they leave the building. "Off to the temp, for now."

"Good luck, Yato-kun."

"Good morning, Hiyori."

They go their separate ways.

()

By three in the afternoon Yato has a headache.

He sits down on a park bench and pinches the bridge of his nose.

It's like throwing yourself at a wall, over and over. The old catch-22: no job, no home; no address, no job. He's young and relatively healthy, sure, but his prison record might as well be a buzzsaw hacking off all his limbs. Cutting him to ribbons.

Sometimes it feels like he's going to be punished forever.

Not that he can say he doesn't deserve it.

He forces himself back up, noticing a distinct wobble, a certain curtsey to the concrete-colored horizon.

_At least prison had enough food_.

Black humor, strong and bitter, coursing through his veins.

One-by-one, Yato straightens out the pieces of himself. Walks on.

()

He catches a break that afternoon.

It's a one-month hire working as, of all things, an assistant dogcatcher. Apparently there's been a problem with strays lately.

The very first dog they nab is a little fluffy sand-colored thing. Lifting its squirming body into the net, Yato thinks suddenly of the child thief with the orange eyes. _A stray problem, _he thinks, smiling.

He hasn't seen him, or, more importantly, Hiyori, in a few days now. Dog-catching is a nighttime job, so by the time he makes it back to the shelter, aching to the core with cold and weariness, the moon and the girl are both long gone.

Yato can't seem to sleep well in the day—too much noise or light or something. Tired all the time. Six days into the job he trips in the middle of chasing down an enormous mutt. His chin chips the pavement and he sees stars.

He comes to to a rough tongue licking blood out of the corner of his mouth. Dimly, he sees a thin grey island hovering on the floor in front of him. When he reaches out to it his hands find a hole in the middle.

Barking twice, the dog takes off into the night.

_5-yen coin, _he thinks dully, as he sluggishly raises himself, split head dripping, and tosses it into his pocket. _Lucky me._

The boss, a portly white-haired man who wears faded band t's and drives the truck around like it's a limo, takes one look at him and tells him not to come back.

Yato nearly, nearly loses it. He may have gotten on his knees, or maybe his body folded, he's not sure which. There's pavement against his forehead.

_Please_, he says.

"We can't," the man whispers. "Your head is a mess. It's against the law to keep temps who're hurt that badly."

The man offers to drive him to a hospital. Yato probably makes some cutting refusal he can't afford, something about not being able to pay for it, anyway—he's not sure; his left eye is crackling with static and he can't think straight.

He stumbles back to the shelter and sleeps and wakes to find his wallet stolen.

()

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

"Fine. That kid still staying here?"

"I don't know, I think so, why?"

"Fucker stole my wallet."

"Are you sure?"

His head is throbbing in vicious rolls of heat; Yato sits down abruptly on the couch. "I'm sure."

There are cool hands over his. He flinches back.

"Yato-kun. What happened?"

"Something stupid," he mumbles. "I tripped." He bats loosely at her hand—she's trying to press her scarf to his forehead. "Don't. You'll get stuff on it."

"I'll do what I want with it," she reprimands gently.

He's pretty sure bleeding on a pretty girl's things isn't a good deed in any god's books, but he's too tired to argue, so he lets this one slip by like a minute. Leans in and smells the roses.

()

Yato walks up and down the rows of beds, up and down and back up again.

The lights are off and the faces below him are mostly shrouded in darkness, but he's still certain he doesn't see Yukine. At the very least, all these people are too big.

"Where the fuck's that kid?" he mutters, ignoring someone lying nearby who mutters back, "Shut the _fuck _up…"

Then his brain kicks in.

Why the kid would want to bunk out in the bathroom, he has no idea. But he doesn't have time to worry about it—the moment he steps inside he knows something's wrong. There's no words, but twisted, heavy breathing, and the air is strangling, damp with grunts and scuffles as the fluorescents buzz in alarm.

In three strides Yato's at the back of the row of stalls, and viciously kicks in the door of the big one.

There's a man, skinny wire-strong hyena of a guy. He's got one hand clamped over Yukine's mouth and the other down the front of his pants.

_Keep it good_, Yato's mind gasps, and then he lets loose.

()

He doesn't kill the guy, at least. He doesn't think.

Meanwhile, the kid's still sprawled open-legged against the toilet. His head's back and his eyes are open and totally, completely blank. Like, _gone. _Not even addicts look this empty. The lights are offand nobody's home; when Yato waves his hand in front of him, his pupils don't track.

It throws Yato, and not much can throw him these days.

He half-expects him to freak when he pokes him in the arm—"Hey, you okay?"—but he gets nothing.

Scouring through his mind, Yato eventually rises, cups his hand beneath the faucet. Returns with the tremulous palmful of water and dumps it over Yukine's face.

What he gets is a coke-and-mentos reaction; Yukine gasps, shoots up, kicks him in the shin and doesn't so much run out the stall door as run through it.

Yato hears him trip and thud to the ground. He steps out of the stall. The boy is crouched in the middle of the floor, throwing his guts up.

Kneeling, he rubs circles into the boy's heaving back until he (finally) notices him doing it and flinches away, violently, arms up and head down. Drawing his scabbed knees up like they'll protect him, like those two skinny poles will be all it takes. Yato thinks he hears him muttering, "Not again, not again, I can't, not again…" and doesn't really feel ill so much as incredibly, incredibly weary.

Probably another large male hovering over him is hardly helping, so Yato goes to the front to get Hiyori.

She goes in and sees him and gets right to her knees, her neat black stockings inches from the pool of vomit, and begins talking, low and steady. Meaningless words, cast like rescue lines into a raging sea—"You're okay now, he's gone, he's not going to hurt you, hey, look at me, you're okay, you're okay."

She stays there for an hour, Yato perched on the rim of a sink, rubbing his eyes, muscles going stiff and achey with cold, until Yukine's cried himself out—still tucked in a ball, still not letting anyone touch him.

When Hiyori rises she nearly falls over; Yato catches her by the elbow.

"Sorry—my foot's asleep." She peers into the stall, taking in the blanket, the backpack. "Was he _sleeping _in there?"

"I guess. I don't know why."

She lets out a long breath. Yato realizes he's still holding her arm and lets go abruptly. She leans into the stall divider across from him.

"Geez," she says, looking at the man on the floor.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

Yato finds his wallet easily enough in the boy's backpack. The sturdy plastic cord he uses to keep it tied to his pants has been sawed through. Must've taken a long-ass time; he really pissed the kid off.

Still, he thinks Yukine's had enough, for today. He'll have to have it out with him another time.

()

"What's that?"

Yato glances up.

Yukine's got deep shadows carved beneath his eyes. He probably gets nightmares. He stands on one foot, hands jammed into pockets and fidgeting, glancing suspiciously at the old wine bottle of coins sticking out of Yato's backpack. At first Yato thinks he's afraid, but then he realizes it's simpler than that. Kid's embarrassed.

"The Bible," he replies, flipping it closed. "Didn't they teach you anything in school?"

"I couldn't see the cover," he grumbles, surly. "Why're you reading that?"

Yato considers the book—a small red King James, the kind you can get for free in hotel rooms. So many answers to that question.

"I guess I'm trying to learn something from it."

"It's all made up, anyway."

"Maybe. Either way, doesn't mean it's got nothing to teach."

The kid stands there as he opens it up to the folded page (dozens of creased corners, almost one for every wrong turn) and plows back in.

After a while, he says, "Are you really reading it?"

"Yes…"

"You haven't turned a page in like three minutes."

"I read slow, okay. We can't all be super-geniuses."

"Well I read really fast," he huffs, sounding almost insulted.

"Good for you, Yukine," he says, sarcastic.

It's the first time he says his name.

()

At dinner, Yato sits across from the boy, watching him pick at his food.

Eventually, he says, "You have to eat."

"Not hungry," the kid mumbles.

"I can _hear _your stomach growling. Shit sounds like a fucking thunderstorm. Come on, have you even tried it?"

"It's not good."

"What were you expecting, your mom's cooking?"

He shrugs, suddenly listless. "My mom's dead."

_Oops. _Well, now he knows. "Well, what do you know. Mine too," he says. "So neither of us have a right to complain, then."

When Yukine still doesn't eat, Yato says, "Look, I don't know how easy you think things are out here, but we're not at your house anymore. You can't just open the fridge and take what you want. The people here are kind enough to give you food, so the least you can do is accept that. I doubt you've ever starved before in your life. It's not fun."

"I don't care. Anything's better than my house. I'd rather starve than go back."

Yato sighs. "Okay, but the point is, you don't have to do either. Your life's been hard, right? So don't make it harder on yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do. You don't even fucking know me."

What a _shitty _attitude. Kind of reminds Yato of himself at that age. He half-smiles. At least this kid isn't whipping knives out and stabbing anyone. Actually, Yato's pretty sure he's just scared shitless.

So he reaches across and swipes Yukine's plate.

"Hey—"

"Oh, sorry, I thought you didn't want this."

After a moment, Yukine draws back, _hissing _like a little wet kitten.

If the kid wants to be that stupid, that's fine by him. A day or two of not eating never killed anyone. He'll come around soon enough. Meanwhile, that's more for Yato.

"_Itadakimasu._"

"_Fuck _you."

Yato digs in.

()

He has to admit, Yukine gives him something to look forward to, after a long day of waiting in line at the temp, of filling out form after form and making excuses to his caseworker and sitting in the library for hours, clicking through seas of webpages on their ancient computers, slow and ponderous as steering an ocean liner. It's rather like coming home to a good television show. Today's episode: walking into the shelter and having to pull Yukine and another teenager apart.

Yato manhandles Yukine off; shoves him behind him. The boy's cheek is bleeding and the girl's nails are sharp.

"You fucking _pervert_!" she hollers.

"For like the eleven hundredth time, I wasn't _looking _at anything!"

"_Fuck _your bullshit! You were taking photos, you little asswipe!"

"As if I'd take photos of you! Your chest is flatter than an airport runway!"

Yato has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at that, which, unfortunately, the girl notices.

"The fuck are you laughing at, motherfucker! Stop hiding that little faggot!"

"Yukine, give me your phone."

"_FUCK you!_" he hollers.

Yato sighs. He'd expected as much. "Okay, miss—miss, can you stop trying to hit me for a second?"

Quickly, he grabs Yukine's arm, plunges his other hand into his pocket, and fishes out his phone.

"Hey! _Hey! _What the fuck are you doing!"

Ignoring the kid's curses, he swipes through to the photo gallery. And… yeah.

"You fucking cunt! Give me that back!"

"Here. Catch." He tosses the phone to the girl. "Do whatever you want with it. It's yours now."

"_WHAT THE FUCK!_" screams Yukine.

Yato whirls, grabs the boy and shakes him, crouching slightly so they're at eye-level.

"You, shut the hell up. I saw what you had on there, so don't bother lying about it."

"_FUCK YOU, fuck you, I'm going to fucking KILL you, you—_"

He hits him across the face, and not gently.

"Are you going to stop throwing your little tantrum now?" He reaches into his pocket, dangles his switchblade in front of his eyes. "You see this? I always carry this in my pocket, so when people _threaten _me, I can fight back. Don't make—hey. Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you. Are you listening to me?"

Slowly, the boy looks at him.

"I said, don't make threats you can't keep. Someday someone might take you seriously."

He holds him there just long enough for Yukine's hands to start trembling, for his breath to start coming faster (not long at all, _Jesus, _this world makes Yato sick sometimes), then lets abruptly go.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," he says evenly. "I shouldn't have done that." He holds out his hand. "Forgive me?"

After a second of panicky breathing, Yukine bolts. Yato suspects he's crying.

()

He's a little worried that the boy will leave, but come the next day Yato spots him sitting on the floor at the edge of the hall, chin on arms on knees and staring into nothing.

He gets food from the cafeteria—mainly semi-cold leftovers; the place is closing down, and heads over to Yukine.

"Hey."

He catches it, the half-second flinch, the way the boy abruptly gathers his arms around himself, like Yato's a sharp corner that needs avoiding. His "Fuck off" is nervy and tense as a rubber band stretched to snapping; his eyes puffy and dark.

Slowly, Yato sits a careful couple feet away. "I'm not sorry about your phone. Still sorry about hitting you, though."

"I said _fuck off_, you old geezer."

Yato shrugs. "I've heard worse. I brought you food."

No response.

"It's mine, you know."

"Is that supposed to make me want to eat it?"

"I mean, I guess it's sort of like a free-revenge card…"

After a second, he snatches the plate from Yato's hand and eats so fast Yato's afraid he'll choke.

"Hey, slow down there, anaconda-boy. You're not a vacuum—"

Yukine's too busy stuffing his face to talk, but he does take the time to flip Yato off.

()

Two days later, Yato finds him sitting on the floor in the last toilet stall, flipping through his Bible. Cajoled out of Hiyori, no doubt.

"Find anything interesting?"

"It's boring as fuck," says Yukine in a tone that suggests he holds Yato personally responsible for the Bible's contents. "I don't know how you read this shit."

"Well, I mean, you're not supposed to just start at the beginning. Nobody likes all the 'this begat that' and those sorts of things. You've got to know what to look for."

"Like what."

He holds out his hand, and a few seconds later Yukine drops the book in it. He rifles through the pages. "Deuteronomy Five. The Ten Commandments. Not a bad place to start."

"I already know those."

"Really. Number eight?"

Yukine squirms, looks away.

"Whatever. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Get a job, kid. I've heard it's the new thing these days. Or go to school."

"I _can't_," he spits. "They'll tell."

"Then go to a children's shelter. They'll take better care of you there."

"Don't want to," he mutters. "I… I can't talk to people…"

"You're talking to me."

"No, you're different… There's too many, um, people there, I can't… I don't like it…"

Suddenly, the kid's hands are clenched against the tile, and his eyes are bright and wet.

Sniffing violently, Yukine stares wide-eyed at the wall, refusing to blink. After a minute, Yato asks, "Is that why you're sleeping in here?"

"No," he spits. The book is on the floor now, spine-up, and Yato watches as some damp stain creeps up the pages. "I don't like the dark."

()

"Hey!Break it up, you two! _Hey!_ Stop it!"

A flurry of arms and legs, a skirt and blonde hair. Yato speeds up when he realizes it's Hiyori who's doing the shouting.

"Joe, what are you _doing_?" she yells. "He's just a kid!"

"He stole my stuff," Joe shouts back, a rangy twenty-something year-old with dyed brown hair and a Kansai accent. "Caught him with his fucking hands in my backpack, didn't I?"

"You shouldn't have hit him," complains Hiyori. "He…"

"Why the fuck not? Someone fucking steals my things, I can give 'im a belt up the face."

"Hey, what's going on?" interjects Yato, stepping between Joe and Hiyori. "Joe, you making trouble?"

"Aw, hell, now you're pinning it on me too? Listen, pal, that little brat over there tried to rob me blind. I's been telling the lady, but she won't believe me."

"I never said I didn't believe you," says Hiyori. "Yukine-kun, did you…"

But Yukine is creased straight in half like a piece of paper, forehead against the ground and still as a stone.

"Yukine-kun?"

Hiyori touches his shoulder, gently.

Yukine coughs and throws up.

"Oh, fuck," says Joe, backing up as some of the vomit splatters. "Fuck. I didn't hit him that hard, I swear. Just clipped his face a little! Fuck!"

On the ground, Yukine is beginning to breathe very very quickly. His pupils are pinpricks and he's staring into nothing.

"He's hyperventilating," says Hiyori, bizarrely calmly. "Yato-kun, get a paper bag from the kitchen."

When he returns (with a large plastic Ziplock bag; there was no paper anything in evidence), Yukine is in the throes of full-blown panic. He keeps clawing at his neck and Hiyori grabs for his hands, fights to pull them away.

"Yukine-kun, can you hear me?" He doesn't respond, wrenching his hands away so hard that Hiyori slides forward with the motion. "You're breathing too fast. You need to calm down."

"Yukine."

Choking, Yukine glances up.

Hiyori stares at him. Yato seizes the chance, holds out the bag. "Breathe into this. You need to breathe slower, you're freaking yourself out right now."

His eyes shudder shut; reaching out blindly, he fumbles the bag from Yato's grasp and presses it to his mouth.

"Try going slower. Just a little bit at a time. You're okay. Joe didn't mean to hurt you, he was just a little angry. He's gone now. You're okay."

The boy sobs, gasps harder, shakes his head, his breath beating around the inside of the bag like a trapped creature.

"Is it better? Slower. Deep breaths."

In ten minutes Yukine's lying limp on his side, his hand still twitching from exertion.

"You okay?"

There's tears on the floor, like crystal.

Yukine whines, "I want to go home."

"I know."

After a second, a small hand snakes up and fists itself in the side of Yato's shirt.

Yato scoots a little closer and sits there until Yukine stops crying.

()

"He needs to go."

"He can't."

It's the first time they've fought over something, sort of.

Hiyori clicks her tongue and types something so aggressively into the computer that Yato almost expects to hear plastic cracking. "It's not good for him, staying here. I mean, he's sleeping in a bathroom!"

"Yeah, but he can't go anywhere else."

"Why not?"

"He's too scared. He says there's too many people."

She sighs, long and loud. "There's lots of people here, aren't there? Anyway, a children's shelter would be _prepared _to deal with kids like him. They take care of kids with all sorts of issues. And at least he'd be around people his own age…"

"It makes sense, but you don't—get it."

"What don't I get?" she retorts, mouth twisting.

"Just… listen, I don't mean to condescend, but I don't think you've ever been in his situation before. When you're that freaked out, an institution's really the last thing—"

"It's not just some _institution_. I know the people there, they're really great—"

"I'm not saying they're not. But they've never been in the sort of place he's in before, so even if they're really nice, it's hard to. You know. Connect," he finishes lamely.

"Oh, and you understand him so much better."

"Yeah, maybe I do," he snaps. "I went through foster care. You want to hear about an institution that's broken? The system in this country's totally fucked. Some of those places wouldn't even feed us. One of the homes I was in had like eleven kids. It was totally filthy, we'd all run around in clothes nicked from Goodwill and rut with each other in the cupboard under the stairs. They were just doing it for the damn money."

The blinding anger recedes fast, leaving him feeling slightly sick.

_Fuck. You've scared her. Why'd you have to say that?_

"Sorry. You didn't need to hear that."

"No," she says rigidly. "It's fine. I—I'm sorry, too." She smiles sadly. "I guess I'm really not qualified to talk about these things."

"You should just say what you think, anyway. Qualifying, or whatever, that doesn't matter."

"You're probably right, though, about Yukine-kun. Of course—you're like the only one he talks to."

"Really?"

She hums a yes. "He trusts you."

Yato snorts. "Yeah, well, the same can't be said for me. That kid's got a bad disposition."

"He's been through rough things."

"So has everyone else here, but you don't see all of us going around and robbing people. That's no excuse."

"You're awfully hard on him."

"Somebody needs to be, if he's too busy feeling sorry for himself to straighten himself out."

()

"Hey."

Yukine stirs weakly. His wrist, when it slips out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket to rub his eyes, is bone-thin.

"What," he says dully.

"Are you okay?"

"'m fine."

Clearly not.

"If you're feeling up to it, can you promise me something?"

He stares at Yato's shoes.

"Don't steal anything anymore."

"Why not."

"You're old enough to understand, aren't you?"

"As long as…"

"Hm?"

"…I don't get caught, it doesn't matter anyway."

Yato says firmly, "Whoever was hitting you, don't you think that's what they thought, too?"

Silence.

Yukine sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "…It…wasn't just hitting…"

The old anger rears its head and roars in Yato's chest, and for once, he doesn't quash it back down—just lets it simmer there. Sometimes anger is right. "I get it," he says. "But you have to keep trying. It's a bit like driving. Just because you started in the wrong direction doesn't mean you keep going that way. You have to keep trying to find your way back."

"Dunno the way back."

"Me neither."

Yukine's eyes slip back shut. They're swollen, red, have been for what seems like days now.

"I'm tired," he says in the littlest of voices.

Yato stands there for a minute.

_What are you doing?_

Well, he, also, has to keep trying. Better not to question why.

He gathers up all his things, bundles them into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?"

At least Yukine sounds mildly alarmed; it's infinitely preferable to the blankness of before.

"I don't like that tone of voice."

"What the hell? It's not like I'm going to off myself."

"Probably not, but then again, you've a track record of doing stupid things"

"I'd never do something as retarded as that."

"Okay, I believe you."

He sits up when Yato just continues smoothing his blanket over the floor. "Get out."

"Stop stealing things."

"That doesn't have anything to do with this!"

"I'll leave you alone when you stop being a dumbass."

"You're the one being the dumbass."

"Sure. Dumbass."

"Whatever, perv. If you touch me I'll kill you."

"Who said anything about touching you, you little brat? You just stick to your corner, and this'll be easier for both of us."

"Get _out._"

"Nope."

"I'm _serious_. Get out."

"I'm not going to leave you alone, okay? So deal with it."

He beds right down in front of the stall door (_hope no one comes in here for a midnight piss_), clamps his eyes firmly shut.

After a few minutes, he hears Yukine mutter, "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yup."

The tiled floor isn't remotely comfortable; he can feel every groove in his back.

_God, are you watching this_? he thinks, and goes to sleep.

()

"I didn't see you on the floor last night, when I was doing rounds."

"Nah. I was in the back."

"Back?"

"Bathroom."

"…with Yukine-kun?"

"I thought he might do something stupid. So…"

"I see. I—um, I'll see if I can get you guys some extra blankets or something."

"Thanks."

He's halfway down the block before he thinks, suddenly, _she noticed. She noticed I wasn't there._

A shit-eating grin spreads across his face, but he's too happy to care how dopey he looks.

()

To compound things, he strikes gold that morning at the temp office: a hardware store, hard-pressed by the usual crowds of holiday shoppers, is hiring overtime staff for their two-week 24/7 lead-up to Christmas. He and a dozen other men work the stock rooms, endlessly hauling boxes up ladders and re-arranging store displays upset by blithe toddlers. It's physically tough but no worse than anything else Yato's endured; he throws himself into the job and even manages to enjoy the aches in his back, the soreness in his arms.

He's never celebrated Christmas properly before, with gifts and a tree and a roast. When he was a kid, at best the caseworker might drop off a few used toys from the local donation center—dolls with their hair missing or trucks with broken wheel axles. And in prison Christmas meant extra food, no work for the day, and extended visiting hours—but Yato had never had any visitors anyway.

A small flashlight and a 24-pack of batteries isn't much, but at least it's a start—and at half-price, too, since he's technically an employee. He even gets it wrapped at the little gift-wrap station by the door in an obnoxious, eye-smarting red-and-blue paper.

Sentimentality aside, Yato really doesn't think Yukine should be staying in that bathroom much longer. Like a kicked dog, the weather's turned vicious, and the air sinks its fangs into the arms of every passersby. Though the main hall is decently warm, the bathroom is drafty as hell.

There's a tree at the shelter, but no gifts underneath—holiday spirit aside, no one's feeling quite merry enough to leave shiny new things unguarded at night. So Yato goes to the front booth to check in his things with the on-duty staff, which turns out to be Hiyori.

"Hi, Yato-kun."

"Hey." He glances at the clock on the wall behind her; it's 12:47 a.m. "Merry Christmas, technically."

"Merry Christmas." She glances at the package in his hands. "Who's that for?"

"Yukine."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Flashlight and batteries. I got it from work. He's scared of the dark—that's why he won't sleep in the main hall—so I figured this might help."

She gives him a long, searching look, and Yato hurriedly glances away, flushing. "That's really sweet of you."

He shrugs. "Why're you still here, anyway? Shouldn't you be with your family?"

"Somebody's got to stay. Anyway, I live pretty close by—I'll just swing home after I'm done. My parents probably won't even be up yet—they're night people, so they always wake up really late."

"Ooh, _night people. _Sounds scandalous."

She laughs. "If anything, I'm the scandalous one, right?"

"That's true. Out all night—"

"Talking to strange men," she teases.

"Letting them give you odd presents…"

"I'd never accept," she says solemnly. "Only if they're meant to be passed on to little blonde boys."

"Lucky for you, then." He slides the present over the gate, and she tucks it beneath the counter. "What about you, get much shopping done?"

"Not more than the usual. Just some things for my parents and friends. Last year I got things for my boyfriend, too, but now, well… I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore."

"Ugh, boyfriends. So expensive to maintain."

"Definitely the reason I dumped him," she laughs. "No, really it was just… I don't know. In dramas and things, there's always some big argument or scandal, but with us, things just sort of fell apart slowly. I guess one day I realized we each had our own idea of what the other person was, but the person we thought ourselves to be didn't match that image at all. We were like two people holding up mirrors, talking to ourselves… Sorry, that was really vague. I didn't explain it well at all."

He shrugs "It's fine. Once you're in a relationship, it's like the two of you are in your own world. No one looking in from outside can really understand what it's like."

"That's definitely true… What about you, Yato-kun?"

"What about me?"

"Any lucky girl in your life?"

"No. I—it's a little weird to say this, but I've never…"

"Liked someone before?"

"I mean, yeah, I guess."

"No way. Not even crushes?"

"Not even."

"But you're, um, you know, like pretty old already."

He pouts. "Wow, thanks."

"N-no, I didn't mean it like that! I mean, you're… it's just surprising, that's all…?"

Yato bites his lip._ Maybe if I hadn't spent eight years in complete isolation from females, I'd found someone_. As it is, though, even if he'd had a relationship before, he doubts it would have lasted through his sentence. And since his release, he's barely been making his own way. Even if there were some girl interested in him, he'd probably turn her down. At this point he can only be a burden.

Of couse, Hiyori's on a different plane of existence altogether—not that he's about to go and bring that up.

()

Yukine's suitably embarrassed when Yato hands him the present the next day.

"I—what are you getting me presents for?"

"Christmas, obviously."

"That's not what I'm talking about! You don't even have any money, so why are you… You didn't steal this, did you?"

"Of course not. We can't all be you."

"Shut up!"

Yato smiles, and hits him lightly on the head.

"Just say thank you, and that's good enough."

"…Thanks, I guess."

"…We'll have to work on that enthusiasm, but you pass, at least for now."

Yukine looks away, surly as ever, and Yato can't help laughing. His first real Christmas, wasted on this brat.

Still, it's the best he's ever had.

()

_Part one: fin._


	2. January

()

The morning of the first of January, Yato shakes Yukine by the shoulder. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the kid manages to peel his eyelids back and shoot Yato a squint of supreme suspicion.

"Get up."

"Where're you going?"

"A shrine. For New Year's. Come with."

"No." Still, Yukine sits up slowly, and Yato has to laugh. The kid's bedhead is legendary. "It's cold outside."

"Come on, don't be a spoilsport." He rattles the wine bottle full of yen coins. "Aren't you curious what this is for?"

()

The streets are crowded, and they're forced to press tight against other people. Out of old habit Yato keeps an eye on Yukine's hands, but they remain firmly ensconced in his pockets. Looks like nobody's starting the year a little poorer.

He steers them away from the big shrines, the flashily dressed ones with electric lights and crowds of selfie-taking girls in kimono jostling around them. He doesn't want to accidentally alarm anyone with what he's planning to do. Instead, he settles for one perched precariously at the edge of a busy intersection, clinging to the wall spider-like—there's a few visitors mingling around, but not too many.

"Here's good." He walks up the steps to the shrine, Yukine trailing behind. He adjusts his grip on the bottle's neck to make room. "Here."

"What?"

"Grab it. On three, we're going to smash. One—"

"Wait wait, what d'you mean smash?"

"I mean what I mean. We're going to break this open right here," he says, tapping the wooden slats of the offering box.

"But you're only supposed to put in one coin!"

Yato laughs. "Oh, even this whole bottle isn't close to enough for me. Trust me, Yukine, none of the gods are gonna be pissed off if you offer a little extra. Now, are you helping me or not?"

Yukine gingerly settles a gloved hand at the base of the neck, while Yato takes the lip. "Okay, ready."

"Ready."

"And one, two—"

They flip their hands like paddles; the fat bottom of the bottle goes sailing through the air and crashes into the wood, glass and coins sailing everywhere.

()

Afterwards, they sit in the park, watching people move by in torrid rivers.

A woman squeezes past, white purse dangling from her arm.

"Your fingers aren't feeling itchy, are they?"

"Shut up."

Smiling, Yato wonders where Hiyori is. Out with her friends, like so many of the young women here? Or perhaps she already paid her wishes at midnight.

Last year, she probably went out with her boyfriend. This year, will there be some other guy at her side? Or…

Well, not like it makes a difference—

"Um, Yato?"

"Yeah?"

"Earlier—when we were at the shrine—you said something about how the whole bottle wasn't enough money. Did you—do something bad?"

Yato feels his chest tighten up, like a screw being compressed. Guilt's a living thing. The first couple years in prison, guilt was anger, hot and defensive and always eager to leap up into a fistfight. That dulled into depression, hopelessness. After that came self-loathing, hot scratches on his legs; he still bears the scars from the worst of them. And for a long while there was numbness.

Now it's just something he lives with, a demon clinging to his back, silent for the most part, but prone to chattering loudly in his ear at the most inconvenient times. He faces it when he can and hides when he can't, and goes on with it draped over his shoulder like a sack of wet concrete.

He looks at the boy.

"I was in prison for eight years."

Yukine gapes at him, and Yato's almost glad of his punishing childishness, because he doesn't hesitate a second before asking, "Why?"

"Because I killed a man," says Yato heavily.

()

He's ten when he loses count of the foster homes, of the doorsteps and bedrooms and faces looming above him.

He's thirteen when he joins the gang out of viciousness and sheer boredom. He's skinny and cold-eyed as a shark, and his fingers fit around the hilt of a knife like he was born with one in his fingers.

Joyous times, then. Leaning backwards out of the sunroof of a car, spine against steel and the stars streaking by at a hundred miles an hour as marijuana smoke streams from his lips. Heart thrumming like a plucked guitar string, and the cop car wailing a jazzy countermelody behind them. Below, the boys cackle and bellow insults, hand him empty beer cans to toss at it. The abrupt crash of glass; lazily, Yato watches upside-down as the cop's window blossoms in a flurry of shards. Not so empty, that one. The car swerves, veers abruptly off the shoulder of the road, tumbles into a ditch. Cheers.

Under his pillow, he keeps a necklace box nicked from one of his previous homes. He flips the lid almost caressingly, licking his lips. There's the little flat set of razors, all shiny and new. Lithe exacto knives. Clunky box cutters.

The other boys nick Red Vines and lighters from the drugstore. Yato shakes his head, smiles, goes to the mall and peels the labels off new Vince Camutos, black leather, low heels, a gold plate like a warning sign over the back of his ankle. Walks out with them on; his old sneakers left behind in the case.

He does go to the drugstore, but alone, with three stolen cans of gasoline and a half-spent pack of matches. He breaks in with a baseball bat. No point in subtlety when five minutes later the place is a bonfire. They ask him why he risked it. He tells them they'll never catch him. "That boy is out of control," they say, admiringly, and he smirks.

He's only sixteen when they approach him, two twenty-something year-olds, right outside the gate of the school he rarely bothers going to. They tell him they've heard good things. He nods; of course. "Time to stop playing around with the kiddies," one of them tells him, and he couldn't agree more. He's done with those imbecilic little league high-schoolers, with their fists and their piss jokes and shaved heads. He's stylish, cruel, ambitious, smart.

He's eighteen when they press the gun into his hand and tell him it'll be easy.

It is—easy.

It's what comes after that's hard.

Not so smart, after all.

()

He's on his way out of the subway station when he hears someone call, "Hey, Yato!"

Right away he tenses.

"It is you, right?"

He turns, reluctant.

"Horada."

"Fucking hell, Yato. Where the fuck've you been?"

Yato laughs, a short bark. "Jail, mainly."

"Oh, yeah? What for?"

A flash of irritation. "Come on, Horada, you remember the thing with Taneguchi—"

It takes him a moment too long, and Yato realizes Horada's high. _Of course. _

"Oh! _Oh, _man! Ta-ne-guchi! That little shit!" He snickers; laughs too loud. "You got him good, man. Lemme tell you, you were a fucking legend. Just—boom. You were a crazy kid. Crazy."

"I know," says Yato.

"They _just _let you out? The justice system in this country's fucked—"

"No, I've been out for two years now."

"Good for you. Fuck the police, those bastards. Two years, though, why haven't we seen you around?"

"I'm done with all that," says Yato, pained-sounding even when he means to sound strong.

"…What d'you mean?"

"I'm going straight. I'm trying to find a job."

"…You're fucking with me."

"I can assure you I'm not."

"But you're _Yato. _I mean, you were the _man_. Everyone had you pegged for boss someday."

Yato laughs bitterly. "Oh yeah? Boss of what, the gang? A bunch of criminals? Sure, that'd be great. Listen, I'd rather not spend the rest of my life in jail."

"Whoah, man, didn't know you were such a straight guy all of a sudden. Way I remember it you weren't above cutting a bitch up. You still have your knives?"

"Sure. But I don't use those anymore."

Horada's shaking his head, looking at him coldly. "Look at you. Pinned up in a suit and broke to boot. You were a fucking king. And now you're ready to be some storeowner's bitch?"

"Those're fighting words there," says Yato levelly. "Watch your fucking mouth. I can go straight if I want to, and if you could get your head out of your ass you would too. The street'll fucking get you killed, or in prison—that's all it's good for."

Horada spits. "Fuck that pussy talk. When the hell'd your balls shrivel up? Some guy in prison cut your dick off so you could be his b—"

Yato still does have his knives; one of them is inside the breast pocket of his suit. It takes him all of two seconds to pin Horada against the wall. He always _has _been good with weapons.

Pressing steel into Horada's jugular, his blood thrums, and he's dizzy with a different type of hunger than usual. Anger sinks its claws into his back, howls at him to press in. _You don't have to _kill _him_, it offers. _There's more fun things to do than that_. And it's been so, so long, and he's tired of always giving in, always bowing his head, _yes sir, no sir_, _thank you sir. _Thank you for fucking what? His life is a shithole; he's homeless and hungry and he's fucking sick of being punished, over and over and over again for that one mistake a lifetime ago. He's sick of feeling worn, used, and he's sick of wondering when it's going to be over, when it's going to get better, because, despite everything, he's increasingly sure that it never, ever is. Sick of scraping life off the sidewalk in take-out boxes and cigarette butts, of the fact that he's twenty-eight but feels fifty; that he wasted the best years of his life behind bars and that he'll never taste Hiyori's kiss.

And against that, the simple, simple wish. Just one more time, to feel _triumph_.

In the rising storm, a small part of him cries out, _someone stop me, please, God, anyone. Someone see._

And, miraculously, someone does.

"Yato?!"

He jerks, startled.

She is standing on the pavement, hovering at the rim of the circle of streetlight. Even now she smells faintly of violets, an incongruous breath of spring.

"What're you doing?"

Horada is breathing fast, eyes sliding between the two of them.

"Yato," she says, and now her voice is a warning. "Put him down. Whatever argument you're having, you don't have to fight about it."

"That's right," wheezes Horada. "Listen to your cunt girlfriend, and walk away."

Yato closes his eyes. Breathes hard.

()

He can see Hiyori's hand shaking as she sets her purse down behind the counter.

"Sorry for making you see that," he says.

"No, it's fine," she replies, but she's obviously angry.

He turns, makes to walk away.

"Yato."

She's glaring at him. "I know I don't have the right to say this, but don't ever do something like that again, okay?"

And he, he only has the right to nod.

How lovely she is. It makes him want to cry.

()

Things are a little awkward between them after that.

Not that Yato's going to delude himself into thinking they were best buddies before. But there's definitely a new sort of chill in the air.

It's the worst possible timing, really—his three-month reserved spot at the shelter expired at the turn of the year since he still hadn't found a steady job, so now he's just on the waiting list, like everyone else. Which means any night could be the last the shelter has room; the last he sees of Hiyori.

He does fully intend to find a job, though—and patch things up with her.

In the morning, as always, the sun peeks through its fingers, reaches out over the horizon, and stabs Yato right in the eye. He rolls out of bed, groaning softly. It's one of those days he feels like a grandfather, muscles aching, eyelids clogged with so much gunk that they don't open so much as unstick.

Yawning so massively he hears his jaw click, he stumbles into his nice clothes, fingers avoiding the ragged hole in the back of his shirt with practiced ease.

There's two police, one man and one woman, standing in the front room and talking to Hiyori.

"Hello, Yato-kun," she calls out, casual, shooting him a look.

"Hiyori. Officers," he says, bowing slightly to the little group. Eyes darting around the room. _Think of something. _

He takes a long drink from the water fountain, then walks straight back into the main hall. He hears Hiyori say brightly, "I don't think I've seen any kids of that age around…"

Steps quick-but-not-too-quickly down the long, long row of mattresses.

Knocking on the stall door, he calls out, "Yukine."

"Hm?"

"There's police here."

Yukine sits up abruptly, like some small animal that's been shocked.

There's a tiny window in the bathroom that hasn't been used in forever. Grunting, Yato eventually manages to lever the damn thing open, although the iron handle he uses to do it snaps clear off in a small cough-cloud of rust.

"Don't worry about it. Go," he orders, cupping his hands. Yukine's sneaker lands in his palms; he manages to get his elbows through the window, and with a little pushing from Yato squirms through the opening like an olive-coated puppy.

Yato pulls the broken window as closely shut as he can, and throws himself down onto Yukine's little pile of things in the stall, tucking the blanket around his legs and fishing his Bible out of Yukine's backpack.

About four minutes later, he hears footsteps in the bathroom.

He pokes his head out of the stall. "Oh. Hey."

"Beds not hard enough for you?" jokes one of the officers. She glances around.

"Don't like the dark," says Yato ruefully. "Is something up?"

"We're looking for a runaway. Have you seen a boy, thirteen years old, blonde hair and orange eyes?"

"A kid…? No, I haven't. There's a couple of, like, teenagers here—but I don't think any of them are blonde."

"Okay. If you do, can you tell one of the staff to contact us?"

"Sure thing. But I've been here a while and I've never seen kids…"

"And, by the way, it's against the fire code for you to be staying in here."

"Why, are people planning to escape through the bathroom?"

They don't seem to appreciate this much. "Just know you can't be camped out in here. There's room for you in the main hall."

"Crystal clear, officer."

He sits there after they leave the bathroom, making sure they've gone for good.

He didn't know Yukine was only thirteen.

()

Yukine's not exactly lingering around the entrance, obviously, but after an hour's gone by, Yato figures he'd better go look for him. He wanders up and down the streets, peering into convenience stores and down narrow alleyways.

Eventually, he finds Yukine sitting on a swing in an abandoned playground, perched among the ice-glazed plastic bones of the thing like the faery ruler of some small, forgotten kingdom.

There is something jarring about seeing a single child, alone, in a playground—something perhaps even more jarring than seeing a child, alone, in a shelter. Maybe it's just that Yato expects sadness, and suffering, and cruelty on the streets, that being alone, out there, is par for course. But even he knows what playgrounds are supposed to represent: happy mothers and cooing infants and mischievous children, shouts of laughter and scabbed knees and wars in which the only casualties are humiliation and victory means simply the chance to stand atop the jungle gym.

Yukine's too old for this, but then again, maybe no one's ever too old.

He crunches up the icy path; leaps onto the swing next to him.

"What are you doing?" mutters Yukine, as Yato plants his foot against the seat and pushes off like he's riding a scooter.

"If you're not swinging standing up, you're not one of the cool kids."

"… you look like a total dork right now."

"Stop complaining and come over here and push me."

Resentfully, Yukine shoves one of the chains. The swing twists madly, and Yato almost loses his footing.

"Cherry bomb!" Yato shouts, and jumps on the seat. There's a loud cracking noise as the shock reverberates through the chains and ice shatters all along the poles, like an animal shedding its fur.

"_Oi_!" shouts Yukine, ducking as ice shards rain down. "Careful, fatass, you're gonna break it."

"Maybe _you're _the fat one. Seriously, get your butt off that swing or start swinging, Yukine, so help me god."

"You're so immat—hey!"

"Move those legs, soldier." Yato grabs the chains on Yukine's seat, pulls them as far back as he can, runs all the way forwards. "C'mon, fattie, help me out here, I feel like I'm pushing Godzilla."

"Okay! Okay. Geez."

"Now stand up."

"Like hell! I'm going to fall!"

"You're not gonna fall. Just hold on to the chains."

"I swear to god, you're going to get me killed."

"Just _try _it?"

Ten seconds of fumbling later, Yukine tumbles straight off the swing.

"Shit!" Yato crouches in front of him. "You okay? Fuck, you've got blood all over mouth."

"I… think I bit mythelf."

"Oh, Christ, Hiyori's gonna give me hell for this. Did you bite your tongue?"

"Don't think tho."

"I guess there's that, at least. Shit. Shit. Sorry about that."

"Th'okay." The smile, although genuine, is bright red and more than slightly horrifying.

"…keep your mouth closed, for God's sake, before you scare someone to death, or get me arrested, or both. Come on. We should go back, they'll probably have something for your mouth."

Yukine shrugs, leans over and spits a glob of blood onto the ground. "'th not that bad. I don' wanna go back. Leth do something fun."

"…don't you think you've had enough _fun _for one day? Or should we go somewhere and get your arm broken, too?"

Yukine shrugs again, bends over to adjust his shoelaces, and two seconds later there's a handful of freezing snow being dumped down the back of Yato's shirt.

"You—"

After that, Yato figures if that brat's well enough to be chucking snowballs like a madman, he's well enough to get hit by a few.

()

They end up hanging around the city, drying their now-sodden coats beneath hand dryers in the subway station bathroom, flipping through old magazines left on seats, dancing haphazardly across the glazed surfaces of pavements and bridges and steps. Yukine picks dried flakes of blood from his lips and laughs more freely than Yato's ever seen before, pointing out flocks of squint-eyed pigeons fluffed up like cottonballs with childish abandon. In the end, they don't get back to the shelter until well after sunset.

They walk in and right away Hiyori is shaking her head and it's like that moment in the old cartoons, when the wily coyote, running full bore, looks down and realizes he's standing on air.

"Full?" asks Yato, stomach twisting and suddenly leaden. Honestly, he's surprised this hasn't happened earlier. At this time of year, the weather's terrible and nobody wants to stay on the streets.

"Not an inch of space left." Hiyori looks incredibly pained as she dredges something up from behind the counter.

Yukine's backpack. A sudden wash of buzzing numbness closes around Yato.

"I'm sorry," she half-whispers. "The manager got told off by the cops that were here. I barely managed to save your stuff, but if he sees you around there…"

Besides him, Yukine is suddenly a ball of worry. Small and ignorant and very thirteen.

"I'm so sorry," she says again.

"Don't be," he replies, although he can't quite wash the numbness from his voice. He wishes he could reach out and smooth the fold between her brows, ask her, "Haven't you realized you've already done enough?"

Instead, he settles for placing a hand firmly on Yukine's shoulder—"Yukine. Come on, take your stuff"—and steering him right back out the door.

()

Despite his best efforts, Yukine's sick by the end of the third day.

He crouches next to Yato, hugging his legs and coughing into his knees. A painfully wet sound that reminds Yato of a colicky infant.

Underneath the dead press of hunger and exhaustion, a blunt rage struggles along in Yato's chest, like an oil slick burning over deep water. Such a tiny kid, and yet there's not a single goddamn place in the city that has the space for him; it's not a paradox he has the patience for.

The cynical side of him says pityingly, _if only you were a pretty woman, if only he were younger, maybe you'd scrounge up some sympathy. _The rest of him stirs upwards as the metro arrives; pulls Yukine along and thinks of nothing at all.

They get two blessed hours on the Ginza line, rattling back and forth in the bone-cracking cold, polite announcements in Japanese and English bouncing over their heads like ping-pong balls. Yukine's head is against the window, then on his shoulder, then in his lap. Idly, Yato strokes his hair, like petting a cat. He can feel his pants getting wet with drool as the kid snores. He doesn't find that he minds—he's more concerned with the damp warmth of Yukine's forehead.

Two metro police step onto the line at Toyosu and shoot them a look. Yato rouses Yukine gently. They get off at the next stop.

Stepping out of the train, a coughing fit takes Yukine and shakes him to the floor.

Panic is a dull stab in Yato's chest.

()

Ten days.

That's the wait time he's been handed over the telephone line, like a stale rag of bread that's been worked over by rats, yet it's still the best offer he's had from any of the dozens of shelters he's called.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, breathes through his teeth. Thanks them and hangs up. Outside, Yukine is leaning heavily against the plastic of the phone booth, eyes glazed. The kid is definitely running a fever, and a high one at that. He needs hot food and, more importantly, a warm bed.

Yesterday Yato did manage to find a youth center that had room, but Yukine flat-out refused to go when he was told that the center only hosted people below the age of eighteen.

They fought right there, standing outside the gates. A _public scene_; well-to-do young couples and harried businessmen averted their eyes. Yato was too pissed at Yukine to care.

"Don't be stupid."

"_No. _You're not my parent. You can't make me go."

"I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"I don't care."

"Just for tonight. I'll be back to pick you up before you even wake up."

"_No. _I don't _care_."

"So you'd rather freeze to death?" snaps Yato. "Quit acting like a dumbass kid."

"So?" spits Yukine, hoarse from the cough. "This is nothing."

Clearly, it's not nothing; unfortunately, neither is Yukine's stubbornness.

Ten days is yet another luxury Yato cannot afford.

He steps outside the booth. It begins to snow.

()

Yato isn't proud of how fast he succumbs to the idea, of how he knows without thinking where to go. He's done this before, and he's not proud of that either.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. This doesn't matter at all.

He parks Yukine at a café some distance away, although he doubts the kid is aware enough to pick up on what's happening. Shoves him down into a booth and orders a beef bowl. His fingers shake when he pulls the 1000-yen note out of his wallet—his last one.

"Stay here," he orders, sliding out of his clothes. Each layer lost is a brutality. Jacket, sweater, coat. Goose pimples spring up on his arm, hard and cold as barnacles. "Hey. You listening to me?"

"Mmmm?" he slurs.

"I'm leaving my stuff with you for now, okay? Make sure no one takes it. I got some food for you. I'll be back in like an hour or two."

"Where… goin'…?"

"Don't worry about it," says Yato smoothly, and just as he predicted, the kid's too caught up in his misery to make much of a fuss. "Just make sure to watch our stuff. I'll be right back."

When he leaves, the kid's got his head on his arms on the table, falling asleep.

_It's not snowing, at least. Could be worse._

He heads to the same bar, out of habit. Even though it's only a few blocks away, by the time he gets there he feels like he'll never stop shivering. Inside it's instantly too hot, rank and loud and dark. Eurotrash techno music grinding in the background; what a cliché. There's a corner for boys and men like him. He throws himself into a ratty plush booth and tries to remember what carelessness looks like, recklessness, fearlessness; squashes his ice-pick fingers beneath his ass to hide the incessant shaking.

He doesn't know whether to be proud or ashamed that it only takes fifteen minutes, that he's standing up and heading to the back with a stranger before his skin has even recovered from its numbness. Then again, Yato thinks, maybe it's better that he's numb.

After that, he tries not to think anything at all.

()

He chooses one of the better internet cafes for them, a big one where the computer cubbies have benches instead of just reclining chairs and there's two shower stalls in the back.

While Yukine is in the shower, Yato trips over nothing and falls to his knees.

It's been over two hours since he left the bar, and he still can't feel his hands. Numbness seeps inwards, like troops slowly invading a fortress. He rubs his calves hard, but it's like touching a frozen wall; he barely feels the pressure from his own hands. He can't stop shaking, and his teeth chatter like they're holding an ovation.

When it's his turn he removes his boots carefully, wincing at the stretch as he bends down. The man wasn't unduly rough, but it's been a long time. He almost falls asleep under the hypnotic beating of the water, jolted to awareness by Yukine's small voice calling out, "Yato, are you still in there?"

Inside the booth he makes Yukine change into only an undershirt and boxers, then lets him sleep on the bench piled beneath both their coats, one of Yato's sweaters acting as a makeshift pillow. He's made the mistake of sleeping with all his clothes on in a heated space before; when he woke up and threw the blankets off he couldn't regulate his own body temperature for hours. Beneath his palm, Yukine burns, but he can no longer tell if that's because the fever's getting worse or because of the corpse-like quality of his own skin.

Flipping open his wallet, he fumbles through the bills, doing figures in a haze, and has to count three times before he manages to reassure himself no one's robbed them. Ninety-five hundred. Not enough for ten days, but hopefully Yukine will get better before then.

Then, Yato doesn't so much fall asleep as get dragged headfirst into it; he wakes up, disoriented and groggy and burdened with a piercing, ear-ringing headache some hours later. Going outside is like taking lashes to the back, but he does it anyway, stares at his stumbling feet and counts steps in groups of ten like a child until he reaches the drugstore. The lady at the counter looks concernedly at him. No doubt she thinks he's buying the medicine for himself.

By the time he gets back (God, it feels like hours and hours, his back aches and his head and he can't feel anything below his knees), he wants nothing better than to pass out in the booth next to Yukine. He pinches himself to stay awake, shakes the boy's shoulder.

"Hey. Yukine. Wake up for a sec."

"Mmmmph."

"I got you s-some medicine." Yato coughs into his hand, freezes. _No._ Not now… He shakes his head. He'll deal with it later.

"'m…not s…ick."

Yato laughs weakly. A little shit to the end. "Uh huh. Lie to somebody else, little man, you're not fooling me. It's just two pills. Open up."

Yukine swallows like a bird, staring bright-eyed and trusting up at Yato, and it occurs to him yet again how utterly responsible he is for this child. The panic that this fact arouses in his chest reminds him of being eighteen, again, and waking up to the police kicking in his foster mother's door.

Still, he knows which disaster he'd pick anyday.

"Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when you need to take it again."

Yukine's not the only one lying his ass off. Yato has no idea whether he can wake himself up in time for the next dose. He'll just have to try.

He settles in the big reclining chair, one leg tucked underneath him to relieve the pressure, and is out in seconds.

()

He does manage it, somehow. Six hours and two pills, then another six, another two. There's food at the café but the convenience store down the street is a hell of a lot cheaper. It's snowing again. The pizza and soup he buys is cool when he gets back; he heats it in the little microwave at the end of the aisle.

The lights on the display blur in and out. His breath stinks in that arid way it only seems to when you're ill. A small television screen is set to the weather—they're announcing it's the deepest freeze Tokyo's seen in thirty years.

Yukine gobbles down five slices with heartening gusto, shoves the rest at Yato.

"No," he mutters, "'m fine."

"Eat it," demands Yukine.

He manages a slice before he starts feeling nauseous, the smell of grease an insult. His hands are still cold. How long's he been inside?

Rolls back into sleep.

()

This time he can't get unstuck. Raising his eyelids is an impossibility.

He can feel something hard beneath his arms. Lying on the desk then.

He hopes Yukine's still taking those pills.

Black-out.

()

He burns.

Coughing. His breath rasps against his throat like a rock against sand, so painful he expects blood. When he swallows it hurts. It feels like his throat has constricted to the diameter of a ten-cent coin.

He has nightmares. Dreams he's in bed and there's spidery hands at the bottom, and he's trying to crawl away, but the bed stretches out and on and on and he can't move, the blankets are holding him back, and then even the demons are gone and all he knows is he has to keep moving, he has to get to the front, but it's so long. Hot flashes. Shivering spells. Sweat dries on his neck and douses him like ice.

Dreams of blood on sheets, blood on his hands. The voices of prisoners 51 and 53, his erstwhile neighbors.

"Yato?"

No, that's a kid. Yukine.

Freezing hands on his forehead. He tries to jerk away. Something pressed to his lips. He cracks an eyelid. Everything blurry. A glass? Tea. He swallows; it's hard.

It makes him feel better, but only for a second.

He freezes.

()

Blinks awake and panics.

He can't feel his arm.

Looking at it, it's still there, but there's no sensation in it whatsoever, and when he tries to move it it just lies there like a limp fish.

He opens his mouth but his voice is gone, and so, he realizes abruptly, is Yukine.

()

He wakes to aches sitting in every one of his bones, like a hotel at maximum occupancy.

Sits up slowly, in a cloud of sweat-smell.

He's lying in the middle of the largest, softest, whitest bed he thinks he's ever seen. One of those four-post affairs with a real headboard, cresting majestic as a wave of chocolate behind his head. The room is lit by a bay window covered in frost sworls.

"Yukine…?" His voice feels thick, gunky with disuse.

A few seconds later, a girl comes sweeping in through the door.

"You're awake!"

"_Hiyori_?"

()

She makes him drink an entire bowl of soup before they so much as hold a conversation.

"Last time," she says sternly, "you fell asleep before you could eat anything. So this time you're eating first and talking later."

Bewildered, Yato drinks too fast and burns his tongue.

"Um," he says hesitantly, rattling the spoon around to signify that he's done, "Where are we?"

"My house," she says crisply. "Well, not my apartment—this is my parents' house."

"Your parents?" he squawks, alarmed.

"They're not at home right now, so I figured why not? Anyway, you kind of threw up on my couch at my apartment, so we needed to move you to clean it."

"Oh. Uh, sorry," he mumbles, trying to piece it all together. Hiyori's apartment? He doesn't remember getting there, or here, for that matter. "Wh…re's Yukine?"

"School."

Yato eyes Hiyori suspiciously. "Am I awake?"

She laughs. "Yes, Yato-kun, you are. Finally—you've been out for half a week. You owe Yukine-kun an apology, you know. You scared him pretty badly." She leans in and stage-whispers, "Don't tell him I told you this, but he was crying when he showed up at the shelter. He thought you were going to die."

"He came to find you?"

"I guess he couldn't think of anyone else. Apparently the owner of the café was telling him you guys had to leave because you'd only paid for a couple days. And here you were with a 104 temperature and no money." She shrugs. "Well, there still wasn't room at the shelter, so I just took you to my apartment. We took turns with you, me during the day, as much as possible, and Yukine-kun at night."

"You said he's at… school right now?"

"Don't worry," she says. "It's a special school, for kids who've had trouble. They don't contact the parents as long as there's an adult to vouch for the situation. I signed for him."

"But don't they need proof for things like that?"

Hiyori blinks. "Well. I might have just… gotten one of my friends to sign as his caseworker…"

Yato stares. After a moment, she blushes fiercely and looks away. "I mean, it's not like she's not a real caseworker, so the signature's totally valid…"

Yato can't help grinning. "So we've corrupted you at last."

"Shut up! You'd better not tell anyone!"

"You're a hardened criminal now…" He coughs, catches his breath, continues, "First it's lying to the government, next you'll be evading your taxes and running cocaine—"

"—it's not _like _that—"

"Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that."

"…this isn't even fair; you're sick, so I have to be nice," she mutters.

"Seriously, though, Hiyori?"

"Huh?"

"Thank you. For everything. You didn't have to do this for us."

"Oh, it's… it's nothing."

There's a little awkward moment, where Yato suddenly realizes he's dressed in clothes that aren't his own, and has an extremely vivid vision of Hiyori undressing him.

"I—"

"Uh—"

"No, it's—I mean, what were you saying?"

"I was wondering if I could maybe use your, uh, shower?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Let me—"

"Thanks—"

"—show you, uh, it's over here…"

()

Hiyori hovers worriedly around him as Yato contemplates the stairs, a grand sweeping affair of a thing that goes on for centuries.

He makes it down the first few alright, but on the fifth step his feet catch and he stumbles forward. Hiyori grabs at his arm and pulls him back.

"Thanks. I guess I'm still…"

"You can—lean on me, if you want, I mean, need to…"

It's not as romantic as you'd think, hobbling down the stairs and clutching Hiyori's arm like an old woman and her cane, which Yato supposes is a good thing—he doesn't need for things to be any more awkward than they already are.

Her kitchen is full of vaguely menacing steel appliances that look like they belong on a spaceship. When she throws open the fridge, it's so bursting-full with food that it's mildly alarming. A sour smell wafts through the air.

"Ugh," she scoffs, looking slightly embarrassed. "They always forget to finish their food before going on vacation. Could at least throw it out, geez… Do you want anything to eat? A lot of stuff's spoiled, but we've got eggs, rice…"

"Just, uh, toast? I guess? I don't think I can't eat a lot right now."

"Toast and egg, coming right up!" she says cheerfully.

Slowly, Yato stands, looks out the window. The world outside is quiet and still as the moon; everything in sight is blanketed in white. A universe of paper cut-outs, interrupted only by the clean black line of the road. It's beautiful, if still a bit frightening. For now, at least, he likes it just where it is—on the other side of Hiyori's thick glass window.

From around the corner, a red crayon of a figure appears. Yato watches him approach. It's the first time he can remember seeing Yukine without his army-green coat; he wonders vaguely what happened to it.

He opens the door, calling out, "I'm home."

"Welcome back," says Yato.

"Yato?!"

Yukine skids around the corner and into the kitchen, moving so fast he almost slips in his socks.

"Careful, Yukine," warns Hiyori, setting the toast down on the table with a click.

Yukine just stares at Yato as if he's seeing a ghost.

"Looking good," says Yato, gesturing at Yukine's uniform.

"You're awake."

"Pretty much."

"Okay," he says shortly.

After a second, Yato moves his arm out slightly, waiting.

Yukine barrels into him, digging his fingers into the back of Yato's shirt, hugging so hard Yato half-expects bruises.

"You idiot," he wails into Yato's suspiciously damp shoulder.

_I really am, aren't I?_

All he can do is hug back, hard as he can with his still-weak arms, and say, "I'm sorry."

()

It's just past midnight; he can't seem to get to sleep.

"Maybe you've been sleeping too much," says Hiyori. She's sitting in the kitchen with him, doing paperwork, wearing pale-pink pajamas with a cat-print on them. Yato can't stop staring at her feet. Her toes are delicate as seashells, each one a miracle; if everyone had feet that looked like that, he thinks, wearing sandals would be a national ordinance.

"Probably," he says. It still hurts to talk too much, but it's getting better.

He pushes himself up.

"Hiyori—"

"What?"

He bows, as deep as he can, holding onto the edge of the table for balance. "You, too. I'm—I'm sorry. For causing you so much trouble. And making you do all of this."

"Yato." Her hands are on his shoulders; gently, she pulls him up. "Don't—you didn't _make _me do anything. I had to do it."

"No. I'm just—I'm nobody, really. There's no reason—"

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

She bites her lip. "You always… talk about yourself like you're nothing."

Yato shakes his head. "That's, that's nice of you to say, but you don't get it. I'm really a criminal, you know, like for real. I was in jail. I did things, I even—"

She presses a finger to his mouth. "No. Stop. I do get it. You did some bad things in the past, right?"

He shivers, laughs bitterly. "That's an understatement—"

"But you can't—just—always think about that. You have to keep looking forward, and keep trying to get better. You know?"

"How?"

"Like this. Everything that's happened with Yukine, don't you think that's worth something?"

"I mean, it's not like doing a math equation, where one thing cancels out the other…"

"Of course not. But it's a good sign. And—for what it's worth, no one else helped him. It's not like you were alone in that shelter, but you were the only one who took the time. And after that, you stayed with him. That says something."

"I had to."

"You didn't—but you did. Just like I didn't have to help you, but I did; just like Yukine didn't have to come find me, but he did. Because we're trying to be good people. Sure, maybe we've made mistakes, or maybe we'll never be perfect. But we keep trying. Call me naive, but I think in the end, that's what matters. That's what you told Yukine, isn't it?"

"…more or less."

"See? _Baka._ You've got to listen to yourself, sometimes."

He closes his eyes. "I really thought I was going to die."

"You didn't, though."

"Yeah."

She looks out beyond him, through the window.

"Tomorrow, Yato-kun, let's build a snowman. It'll be our celebration."

"I don't know if I remember how."

She puts her hand over his, smiles. "We'll figure it out."

()

"—and then Kofuku-sensei told this joke—I don't remember, something about, like, a cactus or something—but it was really funny, and everyone laughed—"

"—I think _someone_'s got the hots for teacher."

"Shut _up, _you perverted old man. I don't…"

When Yato just smirks at him, Yukine bustles over and punches Yato's head—or, more precisely, the beginnings of his snowman's head.

"Hey, watch it! That's his face!"

"You're not even doing it right. His head's supposed to be _round_, not, like, _blob_-shaped."

"…Fine, then, why don't _you_ do it? You can use all those fancy geometry skills that Kofuku-sensei's probably been giving you special lessons on—"

"Oh my _fucking god_—"

"All right, you two, stop bickering already," calls Hiyori, stomping over in her snow boots. "How is it again that I've managed to finish the whole body and the head's still a pile of snow?"

"Sorry, boss," laughs Yato. "We're trying."

"Not very hard. Have you at least put the eyes in? Oh, god, this looks like something Picasso did."

"…That's supposed to be his nose, Hiyori."

"…What? No, where's the carrot I gave you?"

"We're using that for the horn, obviously."

"…so we're building a unicorn?"

"Snow people are very passé," says Yato as seriously as he can. "Get with the times, Hiyori."

After two whole hours of shouting at one another and Yukine ordering them both around imperiously, the snow… thing ends up being something that's about seventy percent woman ("look, obviously it's a woman, it's even got _boobs_") and thirty percent unicorn, but what matters is that the thing's a hundred percent ugly.

"There's something only its parents could love," pants Yato, surveying the Frankenstein's monster.

"This is so gross. We're gonna cause car crashes," says Yukine.

Hiyori dusts snow off her mittens. "Great. I'm going to get sued, aren't I?"

"I'm going to go get it a scarf," announces Yukine, plowing determinedly back towards the house.

"Scarf or not, it's really beyond redemption at this point."

"Yeah, nothing's gonna help this now." Hiyori stretches, putting her hands on her hips and arching backwards like an old man. "There's my workout for the week. Gosh, this was so much easier when I was a kid."

"We old folks just can't keep up."

"Tell me about it… It's good that you're feeling better."

"Thanks to you two. Although, I dunno, building this thing might put me back down for a week or two."

"Ugh, count me in. Yukine'll have to spoon-feed us both."

Her eyes, when she looks at him, literally sparkle. _How do they do that, _he wonders vaguely, _how is she—so—_

He realizes abruptly that it's been utterly silent for the last half minute or so.

"Sorry," he splutters. "You—look—really good today."

Massive internal wincing. God, how much creepier can it get—an older homeless guy who vomits in your apartment first and then proceeds to hit on you? Oh, god, what if she thinks he's just using Yukine to get on her good side? But it's not like he can bring it up without possibly making her suspect that in the first pl—

"Yato," she says, "I mentioned I don't have a boyfriend, right?"

"Y-yeah, um, you said that."

She sighs, loudly. "What I mean is, if you were to kiss me right now, there wouldn't be any issues."

There's a peculiar whining ring in Yato's ears, like someone just struck a tuning fork.

"Can I?"

Hiyori's eyes flit away. Through his utter haze of confusion, Yato notices that she's blushing. "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"I just wanted to… make…"

He leans down slightly, testing the waters, and like magic, she turns her face towards his.

"Sure…"

The last part of the word is cut off by impact, the pillow-soft cushion of Hiyori's lips pressed against his own, like landing in a cloud. She tastes faintly of fruit. Somehow, her hands are on his shoulders, and he dares to touch her neck, her cream-smooth cheek, the line of her jaw with its bones fine as birds'. One part of him tells him that nothing he's done deserves this. It marvels that this lovely human being could accept this, could _want _this from him. But most of him just—marvels.

"What the _hell_…"

They leap apart like startled cats; the tips of her ears are bright pink and his own face doesn't feel so cool either.

Yukine is standing some ways away, staring at them like they've both personally betrayed him.

"I'm gone for _five _minutes, and look what happens," he complains.

Yato dashes a glance at Hiyori like a distress signal, but she's avoiding both their eyes—he can tell she's going to be of no help whatsoever.

Brushing brusquely past the two of them, Yukine throws the scarf over the snow-woman-unicorn's lopsided breasts.

"It's about time," he mutters fiercely, flicking the end of the scarf, and turns back around abruptly. Yato gets the acute sense that he's just as embarrassed as the two of them. "I'm going back now. You guys can do whatever."

Looking helplessly at Hiyori as Yukine stomps determinedly away from them, Yato makes a vague gesture that he intends to convey some sort of purposeful message, but just ends up looking like the sort of movement a deboned fish would make.

"Well…"

Hiyori looks at the snow, at him, away again. "I—" She breaks off, then suddenly grabs his hand. A shock of heat clambers up Yato's arm to rest somewhere along his collarbone; he thinks he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.

"Let's—go," she declares jerkily.

Together, they walk back to the house, hands linked like two mittens tied by a string.

In two weeks, the freeze will break, but right now, Yato feels like spring has already come.

()

_Part two: fin._


End file.
